In The Wake Of Victory
by From Thessia To Rannoch
Summary: I'm really not sure of where I'm going with this story, but it involves a Milena Trevelyan who dearly loves Josephine Montilyet. There will be themes of romance and friendship, but I think I'm going to make this an adventure story. So, while there will probably be some fluff, there will be serious things as well. Hope you check it out! Enjoy :) T for potential colorful language.
1. Chapter 1

**Josephine** had become more of a night creature since the conclusion of the Inquisition's campaign to stop Corypheus. Unlike the other advisers, her work did not lessen in the wake of victory. Requests poured in endlessly, roll after roll after roll of parchment finding its way onto Josephine's desk, each one demanding a timely response. Most of the requests were for visits to Skyhold; many nobles were absolutely fascinated by the place's numinous qualities. Josephine allowed that it must indeed seem like an enchanting place. Tucked away in the mountains, shrouded in mist and cool winds, Skyhold beating with a heart of iron. No cathedral looked more imposing than the Inquisitor's. Of course, the nobles most likely cared little for the scenery, preferring instead personal attention from the Herald of Andraste. Meanwhile, pilgrims flocked dozen-fold to the fortress, charmed by the rural grandeur. Like the nobility, the pilgrims wanted only to cast themselves in the Herald of Andraste's glow, perhaps earn some residual blessing in the process, but but few won the pleasure. "I'm sorry," Josephine would say, "but the Inquisitor cannot make an appearance. She is a terribly busy woman." It saddened Josephine to deny the hopeful a glimpse of the woman whom they idolized, but it saddened the Antivan more to contribute to the stack of pressure that lay on Lady Trevelyan.

The Inquisitor had dragged herself and her comrades from death's maw times over, she had carried the weight of Thedas's survival in her heart, she had stood staunchly in the center of every downfall and build-up and climax of history, and yet nothing appeared more trying to the woman than the accusation of divinity. Her regular fortitude of manner dissipated the moment someone rested their faith at her feet. Josephine saw the way she squirmed, the uncharacteristic speechlessness, the obvious need to escape. Thus, when the Inquisitor wasn't truly too busy for company, the ambassador made something up to keep her clear of these situations.

The truth was, however, that Lady Trevelyan was rarely in need of an excuse. Recovered as the world may be, it still writhed with illness. Red lyrium poisoned the land and whoever happened upon it, Venatori remnants still posed a threat, and rumors of Grey Warden infighting made the prospect of a future blight even more inauspicious. Life after Corypheus was not what Josephine imagined. She used to daydream about a peaceful rift in time following the blighted magister's downfall. She and Lady Trevelyan would be together while they readjusted to the warmth of the sun when impending doom no longer hung over them. They'd dance for days and take walks in the garden and idle along the Antivan harbor. Post-victory reality was hardly so idyllic. Josephine didn't know what stung more: that she had ever thought a thing possible, or that it wasn't true.

Josephine mulled over these thoughts with an unfortunate sobriety as she sat in the dark of her office. The candles on her desk were growing short and her eyes couldn't make out the letters on the parchment anymore. She gave a sigh of resignation and braced her hands on the sides of her chair as she rose. Her back ached from curling over her papers. She knew she had smudged her eye liner at some point in the night, but she did not care.

She went to the window behind her desk and looked out at the silver dotted silhouette of the mountains, black swirls against jeweled velveteen blue. She thought of the nighttime waters by her family's summer cottage and subsequently felt an aching emptiness in the landscape before her. When did this place stopped feeling like home? She supposed it never was; nothing could occupy the space in her heart set aside for Antiva City, for the rolling vineyards and her father's courtyard where he painted and the boats bobbing whimsically in the sea— and yet, for all of Skyhold's modesty, it usually felt like enough to her. More than enough, even, thanks to the Inquisitor. When she was present.

Josephine felt for the knob of the top drawer of her desk. She pulled it open and removed a familiar note. Bringing the candle as close as she could without setting it aflame, she read the schedule: _Start of the month: Inquisitor sets out for Emprise Du Lion; should be back in less than a fortnight._

It had already been a day past a fortnight. Josephine sighed and bowed over her desk to blow out the candles. She prayed for Lady Trevelyan's safety as she walked to the door. Faith was a challenging and often fickle thing for Josephine but she had to believe that the woman who had snatched the future from between the teeth of a monstrous future was being watched over.

The prospect of sleeping alone again was unfulfilling, so she reminisced over the especially sweet nights they had spent together. She remembered the time she had it in her head to bring the Inquisitor a bouquet of flowers. She felt nervous and boyish and suddenly quite silly once she revealed the colorful pièce de résistance. She was afraid Trevelyan would laugh or cock her eyebrows in that way of hers, but she went red and flustered and giddy. Josephine was reminded of how good it was to feel safe around someone.

Whenever Josephine snuck into Lady Trevelyan's room at night, she always brought a stack of papers with her to the high quarters, along with a bag of clothes. It made coming out in the morning less conspicuous. _No, Ser, I'm just going up to the Inquisitor's quarters to discuss a few documents. Oh, I was just starting early on some ambassadorial matters with the Inquisitor._ Josephine knew they weren't fooling anyone, not since the courting became public, but it seemed the decent thing to do to at least pretend about chastity when nobility and Chantry figures were involved.

But on that night, Josephine left the papers at her desk and made her way to her own quarters.

* * *

**Inquisitor Trevelyan **was glad to leave the frigid hills of Emprise Du Lion. She would have been ecstatic if she didn't have to trek through the snow to get back to Skyhold. Her calves stung as they plunged through the foot-and-a-half of accumulation. Each step was a battle to yank her leg back out and keep herself from falling forward. Still, it felt good to leave the glowing red lyrium-dotted hills behind.

She had come back to Emprise Du Lion to oversee efforts to remove the lyrium from the area. The Inquisition was the only organization anyone in Thedas could agree on to be responsible for a task of this import. Lady Trevelyan supposed she should be proud about that but more than anything it irked her. The Inquisition had sacrificed enough already just to give people the luxury of worrying about the dire things like red lyrium. Now it was their job to get rid of it, too? Was no one else in Thedas capable? Since defeating Corypheus and consequently fulfilling its purpose, the Inquisition had become even more of an international peacekeeping force, but she had to wonder why no one else was tending to the world's problems. Darkspawn troubling your town? Send for the Inquisition! Bandit raid on a local hamlet? Send for the Inquisition! Militia of farmhands who've never wielded anything more deadly than a plow? Send for some Inquisition trainers! It was a noble enough cause but it had started to feel...

"Maker's red ass, I hate this weather," Varric grumbled as he struggled against the snow. He wore a bearskin cape over his tunic which, for the first time, he deigned to button since the weather was so raw. Trevelyan wondered if his chest hair would freeze and crack off. There would be many sad ladies if that became true, herself included. "You'd think magical glowing red shit would warm up the landscape a little bit." His breath tumbled out of his mouth and dissipated into the cold. "Where's the next inn?"

"No more inns from here on out," the Inquisitor sighed. "Last night's was the last one on our path. Only thing between us and warmer places is a snowy hell pit."

"Oh, fantastic!" Dorian cheered sarcastically. "It's campfires and igloos from here on out. What an adventure."

They struggled against the weather for an hour before Trevelyan allowed them to make camp. Sera threw the sticks she'd gathered on top of the other sticks she'd gathered and then nearly collapsed on top of the stray log Dorian sat on. He pulled a gloved hand out from under his thigh and sprang his fingers at the sticks, setting them a flame and then quickly returning his hand to its warmer spot. Varric pulled his cloak tight around his body and sat at on Dorian's other side. They all courteously left a bum-sized space at the end of the log for their Inquisitor, but she was kneeling by the flames, rearranging the sticks Sera had dumped carelessly.

"Does veilfire keep people warm?" Varric asked Dorian, eyeing the meager amount of firewood they gathered. "Can't you just light one of those?"

"The cold's shit, Dwarfy, but ain't worth messin' with veil shit," Sera interjected. Trevelyan couldn't help but roll her eyes behind her hand. Normally she was able to tolerate Sera's intolerance, even when it edged on foolish ignorance, but the Inquisitor's patience was thinning with each cold wind that slipped through the collar of her coat. Were her companions always this whiny, or was she just short of temper?

"Unfortunately, no. Veilfire does not possess that warm, toasty property," Dorian said, clearly disappointed with the fact. Varric tossed up his eyebrows in a valiant attempt to roll with the punches— even when the punches were cold blasts of air and wet snow and a sorry lack of alcohol.

Dorian became uncomfortably aware of the empty space on the end of the log and the empty silence over the camp. He was eyeing the Inquisitor curiously. She wasn't the most talkative woman, but she had a habit of filling up discomforts with distracting words. It was one of her many ways of helping people, as if she owed people any more than she had already given: her time, her life, her friends.

"My good woman, Milena, is it really so much warmer a foot closer to the fire than next to all these warm, handsome bodies? Mine in particular?" Dorian tweaked his mustache and grimaced when it felt cold and stony between his fingers.

"Mm," Sera hummed in agreement, "could use a snuggle buddy." Varric gave a snort of laughter and shook his head. Sera's flirting with the Inquisitor was always a subject of humor among the group. Except around Vivienne, that is; that woman could never get over her disdain for the Red Jenny, and she took personal offense whenever Sera tarnished the Inquisitor's name with her forwardness. Milena couldn't be bothered less by Sera's harmless comments, and she even exchanged a few of her own when the mood struck her. She was, however, presently not in the mood and thus opted to meagerly mutter, "I'm going to find some more firewood. This stack isn't half as much as we need." Sera sat up at the offense against her, but all three watched Trevelyan go in silence. They exchanged confused and concerned looks, and Sera even looked a smidge guilty under that picaresque cowl of hers.

Night was climbing over the mountains when Trevelyan entered a dense wood not too far from camp. Where she could not find fallen twigs, she reached up and broke off a limb herself. The crack of a branch snapping off the trunk was a thick, rich sound, and as horrible as it felt to dismember the trees it also gave Trevelyan a means of letting out some of her frustrations.

And the list of frustrations was quite long these days, but it was the confrontation of one complicated question that darkened her disposition: what lay ahead in her future?  
It was funny, really, if funny was the same thing as painfully ironic. The Corypheus threat granted the Inquisitor more luxuries than she initially realized. Impending doom gave her purpose. It made the uncertainties of the future irrelevant in light of the enormity of the present. It gave her conviction and direction and a state of being that she did not need to constantly question. Now that it was all over, she lost all of those things. Milena had no answer to what was next for her, or even if there could be anything after the Inquisition.

The future's uncertainties included Josephine, too, which was perhaps the most frustrating factor. She loved Lady Montilyet dearly and wanted nothing more than to be in her life, but she was growing doubtful about whether such a thing was possible, at least the way she imagined it. They both had pressing obligations. The mark on her hand seemed to bind her to violence and toil, even after defeating Corypheus. It had been months since their triumph and still there were rifts to close, red lyrium to erase, and religious expectations to fulfill, all because of the Anchor. The last was the worst of all of it, for in being an Andrastian symbol there were several more impossibilities: of anonymity, of regularity, of never having to look over her shoulder to see if assassins were after her or the people she loved.

Thus, Milena Trevelyan questioned if she could even marry Josephine Montilyet with such baggage tied around her own ankles. Marriage meant duty, and Milena had no way of knowing if she could escape her inquisitorial duties— or if she even wanted to. Marriage meant relocation, and Milena would never ask Josephine to consider Skyhold her permanent home. After all, Josephine was head of her house and utterly charmed by her home country. So where did Milena fit in her life? It seemed it would take a considerable amount of sacrifice to belong.

She reached up and constricted her fingers around the thick throat of a branch. She gave a tug, and then another tug, and then a savage rip cracked through the air and the weight of the tree's limb fell against Milena's muscles. She gathered up all the pieces in her arms and trudged back to camp, a sour countenance distorting her face.

* * *

**There was** **a knock** at the door. "Come in," Josephine called. The door to her office creaked open and a purple-cloaked figure stepped through. "Good morning, Josie," came a familiar Orlesian lilt. Leliana approached Josephine's desk, her roguish smirk attracting attention whatever she held behind her back. She brandished a wooden chest with a halla carving under the handle. She set it down on Josephine's desk. "Compliments from the Dalish clan Lady Trevelyan saved," she explained. Josephine set down her quill, wiped a stray drop of ink off her hand, and opened the box. There were dark green shreds of dried leaves inside, so much they were nearly pouring out of the box. There was a strong whiff of mint.

"They gave us tea?" Josephine surmised, taken aback by the humble sincerity of the gift. She knew the Dalish were nomadic, and that lifestyle could hardly afford organized tea harvesting. How exactly they obtained this quantity of the delicacy she did not know, but the undoubted difficulty of the task made the gift touching. It felt so much more sincere than the overly-stylish gilded armors the nobles often sent the Inquisitor, who simply had too much self respect to wear rubied chest plates into battle.

"They wanted me to give it to the Inquisitor. Oh, and, the keeper wishes the two of you a lovely union." There was mischief in her tone.

"Union? Wh— the Dalish said this?"

Leliana gave a whimsical, windy laugh. It reflected a side of her that was starkly different from her usual severity, the side of her that charmed Josie when they first met in Orlais. "You should know just about everyone in Skyhold is talking about you and the Inquisitor. They're all hoping you'll get married here at Skyhold so they'll be able to attend. I bet it didn't take long before the Dalish heard of the news, too. They were living amongst our soldiers, after all." Leliana made a gallant effort to bite back the laughter that was bubbling up inside her as Josephine's face flushed red. For a woman of nobility and court, Josephine certainly had a hard time being talked about, especially when it involved her relationship with the Inquisitor. Then again, Leliana always knew her to be easily embarrassed.

Josephine propped her elbows on her desk, right on top of the still-wet letter she was just writing, and hid her face behind her hands. Leliana let out a gasp when she was unable to prevent her friend from spoiling her work. "Oh, watch you're sleeves, Josie," she sighed through her frown, reaching out and wrapping her hands around Josephine's wrists to lift her inkstained elbows off the parchment. Josephine looked down at the destruction of her morning's work— as well as her satin sleeves— and suddenly felt the urge to crawl under her desk and sleep in defeat. Leliana took her by the hands, laughing away the matter for Josie's sake, and brought her to the water basin in the corner. The redhead dipped her hands in the water and began to rub the ink off Josephine's shirt, a discouraging frown wrinkling her face when the ink only spread.

"It's no use," Josephine said, resigned, "but thank you." She gave the former bard one of those flat smiles, an attempt at conveying gratitude, and retrieved the box of tea leaves from her desk. She held it up meaningfully. "I think it's time for a break anyway," she announced, rubbing the side of her face tiredly. "Care to join me?"  
Leliana knew she should say no. She had a lot of work to do as well, and she only meant to take a few minutes to deliver the tea to Josephine. But she saw the dark rings under Josephine's eyes, the lopsidedness of her eyeliner (which she wouldn't dare point out to her), and most importantly, she detected what was missing: her usual springiness. It had been too long since Josephine seemed her usual talkative, vibrant, even occasionally indulgent self. Work could wait; there were more precious things to accomplish, like restoring Josephine Montilyet's smile. Putting on a noblewoman's airs, Leliana jokingly fawned, "Lady Montilyet, I thought you'd never ask!"

* * *

**Josephine** handed her a cup of tea. Leliana took the warm porcelain between her fingers and breathed in the steam contentedly. Josephine lowered herself into the chair besid her and took noiseless sips of the hot liquid. "The mint is a lovely touch," Leliana told the rim of her cup. Josephine hummed in agreement.

Leliana watched her movements and noted her wordlessness. She set down her cup and reached over the armrest of Josephine's chair to hold her hand. The Antivan looked up, eyes questioning Leliana's, and the former bard gave the ambassador a sad smile. "I know you are troubled, Josie," she said gently. "Tell me why."

Josephine opened her mouth to speak but her mind wasn't ready with the right words. She sighed, then ducked her head under her hand. "I think... I think I just miss Milena," she answered heavily.

Clearly, the Antivan woman hadn't taken the time to be introspective. Leliana recognized the tactic: keep yourself so busy that you can't think about what is troubling you. The spymaster was guilty of this maneuver herself, but she knew it became unhealthy if prolonged. Then she would have to coax the words out of Josie to get her to start working through whatever was bothering her.

"I think you tell half a truth," Leliana said. "You miss Milena, but that is not the only thing bothering you, yes?"

Josephine looked out from behind her hand, meeting Leliana's eyes. She wanted to curse the woman for trying to get her to talk through what she had no energy to process, but she knew Leliana meant well. She always meant well, even in her line of work. The spymaster took on trying tasks and made decisions that would weigh anyone's conscious like shackles in a deep river, and yet she did it all because she meant well. _Strange way the world works,_ Josie mused somberly.

"You are right," she relented, "there is something else bothering me. I just don't know what to call it yet." She frowned. "But I feel agitated and impatient and quite confused." She looked for an answer in Leliana's crystalline eyes. They held compassion, but Leliana was no oracle. The best she could provide was a gentle rub on the back of Josie's hand. Leliana mulled over the issue for a moment, trying to find something comforting to say or some pearl of advice, but she came up with nothing. No words could untangle whatever knot was developing inside of Josephine— at least, not Leliana's words.

There was, however, one thing Leliana knew of that could ameliorate Josephine's frustrations. If she could convince her.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! Please, if you liked this, leave me a review. I'd love to hear whatever you thought about this piece :) Do have a lovely day.**


	2. Chapter 2

Josephine gave a chuckle at the suggestion and shook her head at her friend's antics. "Very funny," she said with a smile. Leliana was smiling too, but in that devilish way of hers. Mischief shined in the blue of her eyes and Josephine realized that she wasn't kidding.

"Leliana! It's hardly noon. What will people think?"

"They'll think we are taking the break we deserve," the former bard offered, throwing her shoulders up nonchalantly. "Come on, Josie. Think about all the fun we had in Orlais. Remember my party?"

"You mean the one I threw for you? Which would make it _my_ party?" Josephine returned with a giggle. She had fond albeit hazy memories of the night. The alcohol's doing.

Leliana rolled her eyebrows. "I'm not sure it works that way, but yes, we are thinking of the same one."

They had sneaked out of the party after a generous couple of hours enduring the vapid company and then taken to the streets of Orlais's most energetic city. The walkers in the street swaggered underneath their masks, nearly all of them on their way to some fancy event. The buildings writhed against the reverberations of stringed instruments and dance steps. Josephine remembered a trio of bards strumming and picking at their lutes as they hopped down the cobblestone walkway, dipping between carriages and hand-holders, curses fleeing from the mouths of every disturbed party. They couldn't be angry for too long, though, for the bards sang so enchantingly into the wind.

_My lady, my lady, the night is young,_

_And so are we!_

_Our lutes are strung,_

_We'll dance merrily!_

_Oh how we'll remember_

_In the glow of the embers_

_All those nights we were free!_

Josie's incredulousness at Leliana's suggestion softened into wistfulness. With blushing brown eyes, she let the memory waltz along the edges of her heart, even with all its melancholic vestiges. It was always a battle to keep the derogative bits of one's memories from spoiling the whole thing. She couldn't help but wonder if those bards were merely partying musicians enjoying the mysteriousness and facetiousness of their title or if they were the kind who breathed poison into their songs. Naturally, the recollection brought her to the culmination of her own career as a bard.

She remembered the frenzy: there was a shine of metal— a knife— and a jump. She thrust out her arms and expelled the attacker down the stairs. His body made a raucous sound as he tumbled, grunting with each impact. She wanted to flee, whether for her own life or to warn her contact she was not sure, but his sudden stillness stayed her feet. His chest did not inflate rapidly as hers did. Heart churning in her stomach, she made her way down the stairs. A convulsing hand reached out and eased the mask off his face. His eyes were deep green like the curtains in the ballroom. Golden hair framed a triangular face in a suddenly familiar way, and Josephine whipped around, hand covering her mouth, elbows bracing her against the stairs as a tumult of nausea overtook her. And then—

"Josie?"

Leliana saw the other woman twitch. She watched Josephine's eyes refocus, first on the reality of the present and then on Leliana.

"Well, where are the drinks?"

* * *

There was something unfitting in the wind. Melina stopped in her tracks the moment she recognized the scent of smoke. She thought the area was empty of any settlers and thus considered that there might be a campfire nearby. But she was a woman used to disaster and shit luck, so she made no assumptions.

"Sera, get me some eyes up there," she told the nimblest one in the group. Sera obeyed in silence. As she trotted over to a tree with a forked nadir, Trevelyan wondered if the Red Jenny was still offended over her lack of flirtatiousness. Perhaps she'd make up with drinks when they got back to Skyhold.

Sera placed her foot on the nadir and reached up. It didn't take her very long to climb to the top of the tree. She had spent much of her childhood clambering along urban structures, jumping from roof to roof and escaping through nobles' courtyards with cinnamon rolls tucked between her teeth. Trees were different, sure, especially when they were icy and quivering in the wind. Sera found it easy enough regardless. Once at the top, she squinted her eyes against the flurry and struggled to find any source of the smoke smell. All she could see were mountains on her right side, strips of white snowflakes stacking onto the white hills, and a cluster of evergreens. "Wait a minute," Sera called down. Trevelyan watched the elf crane her neck, forehead wrinkled in concentration. "Oh, shite," she muttered. She began a hurried descent.

"There's a hamlet on the other side. Smoke's rising up from burning houses." She pointed to the patch of evergreens.

Dorian and Varric exchanged looks in back of the Inquisitor. Varric sighed through his nostrils and reached his bulky arm behind his back for Bianca. Dorian cracked the vertebrae between his shoulder blades and tossed his staff from hand to hand. "How convenient that the Inquisition's best and brightest happen to be nearby," he intoned humorously. But as soon as the words were out of his mouth, the keen mistrust in each of them made them wonder just how convenient it could be.

_Let's not make assumptions,_ Trevelyan warned herself. She grabbed her staff and pointed it to the mountainside that was developing not far from the evergreens. "Sera, I want you on higher ground. Dorian, Varric, take up my flank."

They each gave a dutiful nod. Letting Sera get a head start for the vantage point, the Inquisitor turned around and regarded the mage and rogue. "I don't hear anyone yelling," she said, "so if there was a raid I think it's over already. First priority is the injured."

The hamlet was a small cluster of five wooden houses on the edge of a sparse bundle of trees. All of the houses were reduced to a smoldering pile of planks. From this close, Trevelyan smelled burnt hay and baking horse shit. She tried to tip-toe up to the buildings, but the snow was too crunchy for stealth. The three of them wound between each of the buildings in search of survivors.

"Maker," Trevelyan gasped. There was a pile of red and black flesh, still emitting grey smoke, wedged underneath a collapsed and singed wall. She snapped her head in the opposite direction, feeling suddenly nauseous. Repulsion tingled in the pit of her stomach, threatening to make her expel the rabbit they had eaten back at camp. She tried to calm herself down with fresh air in the lungs, but everything smelled like burn. When she forced her eyes back open, Varric was shaking his head at the ground, unable to keep walking.

Dorian went to Trevelyan's side. His brow dipped and his mouth bent into a sad grimace at the sight of the victim. He clasped a hand comfortingly on the Inquisitor's shoulder. Then he braved the broken-down house to complete the count of victims.

"Three in there. A family, I think." He regretted the unnecessary information as soon as it slipped off his tongue. Varric rested the back of his gloved hand on his forehead and heaved a sickly sigh. The Inquisitor forced herself to walk a few feet off.

She saw a figure in the corner of her eye, a black cloak flapping like a torn flag. She raised her staff instinctively, but it was just a villager. The man was thoroughly aged and looked barely able to walk in the snow, never mind run as he was. Well, it was more of a hobble. He fell onto his knees at the Inquisitor's feet, and his thin frame wracked with sobs. "P-please, Your Worship," he hollered, knobby fingers reaching out to grab her ankles. "P-please, please, please!"

Varric bent over and placed his hands on the man's back. He helped him get back to his feet. With his head raised, Melina saw that his skin was chapped around the eyes and mouth. Whether from the cold or crying she could not be sure, but it was clear that he was thoroughly distressed. "I ran to the mountains when they came. The elf woman told me to come down here to t-t-talk to you."

"What happened here, Ser?" Melina asked, trying to keep her voice steady and gentle.

"R-raiders! They wanted our horses, I think. It's all they took 'cause they burned the rest!" He went weak in the knees and nearly collapsed again, but Varric caught him. He seemed utterly intent on sinking to the ground, however. Cloudy eyes dripped tears onto the snow.

"Where did they go?" Dorian questioned, ready to bring his own fire to the barbarous attackers. It took the old man a few tries to make himself articulate against his choking sobs, but eventually they pieced together that the raiders said they would regroup at some nearby caves. "There's only one cave I know of," he told them, pointing out towards the mountain Sera was positioned on.

There was a rock forming in Milena's throat. She swallowed it down, then got down on one knee. She hated what she was about to do, she hated it so goddamned much, but she knew she could give the desperate and downtrodden something they always yearned for. She gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder, easing his head up high enough to look at her.

"Faith," she commanded. "Have faith. Andraste be with you." She watched the tears in his eyes freeze. There was a heartbeat of silence, a rest in his pained cries, and suddenly he clasped his hands over the Inquisitor's and began to shake them vigorously. Resting his forehead on their entangled hands, he cried, "Maker and Andraste, have mercy!"

The Inquisitor could feel his absolute conviction in the way he gripped her hands and in the hysteria of her voice, and it made her feel like a filthy liar.

* * *

Cullen struggled to be still in his desk chair, hands gripping the rests while his boots scraped absentmindedly against the floor. Where was the report the spymaster promised? She was never late with delivery. Sure, the report wasn't the most important thing on the schedule, but it was strange that no one had brought it by yet. He wasn't a fan of hounding after people. Alright, that's a lie; the former Templar was fine with chasing people down, just not Leliana. It was more agreeable to hound apostates through the countryside than be on the receiving end of the spymaster's ire.

Still, that report was the day's last loose end to tie off, and he knew he'd sleep tremendously better if he could just put this task behind him. He would do it, then. He took a big breath and held it in his chest a moment, feeling the weight of all that air in his lungs.

If nothing else, the former Templar was relieved to take a walk in the crisp nighttime air. He missed those days in Haven when he got to be outside with the drilling soldiers. Once other capable instructors flocked to the Inquisition, training the troops was no longer his reponsibility. Managing an entire army and the defenses of a significantly larger fortress provided ample work for one man, dedicated as he was, but it tasted rather stale at times. The reliable clang of metal on metal, the determined grunts, each amazed breath out of the mouth of a soldier who had successfully blocked an attack... it was comforting to hear the sounds of something so simple and hearty. He much preferred it to the political coupés of the war room.  
He respected the spymaster and ambassador's work, though he wished it didn't have to exist. Then again, the world might be better off if armies were not required either. He boxed away these thoughts as he entered the stone stairway leading up to the rookery.

"Leliana, you've always been such a terrible flirt!" Josephine trilled, punctuating the statement with a colorful giggle. "I can't believe you would say something like that to my cousin! You had just met him!"

Leliana had nothing but pride (and intoxication) in her twinkling eyes. "Oh, Josie, you should have seen how red his face got. Blushing is a defining Montilyet characteristic, I realize." There was a playful swat on the redhead's shoulder, and then Josephine grabbed herself by the collar and sank her face behind it like a turtle retreating into its shell. Josephine's coy antics were something she only resorted to when she was truly comfortable with someone. In the back of her mind, Leliana wondered if the Inquisitor had ever seen this side of her.

"Wait. Leliana." The ambassador's voice took on a wary tone. "Giuliano... you didn't... he wasn't the man at the party who you..." She couldn't even finish the sentence. Leliana was trying admirably to hold down the rumble of laughter that was shaking her, but she absolutely erupted. Her body swung forward, head bowing into her legs and nearly bumping against the floor in the process. The bottle in her hand tipped over and burbled wine onto the rookery floor. When Leliana snorted (which terrified herself but awed Josephine), Josie positively squeaked with giggles.

They were interrupted by a very audible creak. Even in her drunkenness, Leliana would recognize the way that same board on the stairs groaned every time someone stepped on it; she always made a conscious effort to avoid the third step from the top. Leliana grabbed Josephine's shoulder, signaling with her wide eyes to be silent. The two women possessed that delighted terror young children feel when they might be caught in the act of stealing sweets or finding their fairy traps sabotaged. "Um, hello? Sister Nightingale?" came Commander Cullen's voice. His heavy footsteps were slow as he made his way about the rookery confusedly. He had just heard someone's voice, and suddenly it was so silent. Leliana flattened herself out behind the boxes. Her hand reached up and grabbed Josephine's collar, pulling her down with her. Josephine let out a squeal, suddenly alarmed, and lost her balance. She flopped over Leliana's abdomen, whispering loud, frantic apologies before noticing Leliana's barely-suppresible laughter. Secrecy thrown aside, the two of them were positively giddy as they rocked around on the ground, faces contorted and stomachs aching from all the chuckling.

Cullen was standing next to a pile of boxes when he heard them. He knew there wouldn't be people behind there, of all places, and yet he wondered where else the sound could possibly be coming from. He craned his head around the top of the pile. Brown eyes went wide like an embarrassed little boy at the sight of the two women splayed out strangely, one of them unaware of the spilling bottle of wine. It was too much for Leliana and even Josephine to bear. If they could laugh any harder, they would have.

"Oh, right, um," Cullen fumbled, stepping away from the crates as quickly as if he had just stumbled across a venomous spider. He felt his face burn at the initial embarrassment, but then he listened to the marvelously stupid giggles and— was that a snort?— and he couldn't help but laugh himself. Shaking his head and giving a low chuckle, he hurriedly retreated back down the stone stairway. That report just wasn't worth ruining this discovery.

* * *

Dorian's boots maneuvered around the litter of dead bodies outside the cave. The snow was falling so fast that some of them were quickly being buried, even as the blood that burbled from their wounds was still hot. He surveyed the damage accomplished, mostly by Milena. That woman had a truly savage manner of fighting. She could possess the grace and poise of a formally trained knight one moment. She appeared an almost gentlemanly threat until she actually got into the thick of things. The look in her eyes as she slew raider after raider was something truly vicious, even animalistic. She appeared crazed, fixated on destruction, ostensibly unconcerned by things like victory or safety or casualty. Dorian knew, however, that Milena Trevelyan was still watching her friends' backs when she could when a well-timed bite of frost was all that kept him from being cut down today.

Dorian knelt down beside one of the raiders. They didn't have any sort of uniform. Some wore bear skins while others wore dyed black leather or iron armor. He pried the cold, dead fingers off the handle of the dead man's sword and inspected it. Dorian didn't know too much about swords on account of his being surrounded by the poor and unarmed or mages who only dueled with magic. Still, he could tell the weapon was of fine quality. He turned it over in his hands, stopping only when something caught his eye.

"Eye-oh-are," came Dorian's voice against the huffing winds. Varric was the only one around; Sera and Trevelyan were inspecting the inside of the cave, looking for captives or supplies. The dwarf waded his way over to the Tevinter mage. "What was that?" he asked. Dorian brandished the hilt of the sword, pointing his gloved finger to an inscription. The letters "IOR" had been carved into it.

"Strange," Varric murmured, brow furrowing as the pieces dangled in front of him. He pulled a knife he had taken off one of the dead from his boot and showed the mage the hilt. Just like the sword, the letters "IOR" had been scratched into it. The two men exchanged looks, concerned brow and pursed lips mutually agreeing that the common inscription was a sign that things were no longer so simple. They scoured the rest of the dead bodies.

"It's on this mace right here," Varric called out.

"The token mage's staff as well."

There was a nauseated huff coming from Varric's direction. While trying to flip one of the bodies over to get to their weapon (which Milena had somehow managed to get them to fall on), the sleeve rolled back and revealed a series of raised pink cut marks on the corpse's body._ I AM AN INSTRUMENT OF RIGHTEOUSNESS._

There were dull footsteps echoing on the cave stone. Sera and Milena appeared at the mouth of the cave with a bottle of alcohol and a satchel of meat to show. They both had surly expressions. None of the squad liked the sight of burned villages and brutalized innocents, but Sera and the Inquisitor had a tendency to go on the war path almost as easily as Cassandra. They saw an injustice and felt that they would only be able to pretend to put it behind them once they paid the bastards back seven-fold. However, there were only seven of the raiders, and seven kills weren't enough to satisfy them.

"Milena," Dorian called, rising. He carried the sword over to her, showing her and the elf woman the inscription. "I don't know what these letters mean, but all of their weapons have them."  
"That's no smith's sigil," the Inquisitor said, noting the poor quality of the inscriptions. They looked to have been scratched into the metal hurriedly. "Mean's these raiders are a part of something," Sera said, "means there might be more of 'em for me to shoot." Her pale fingers brushed the end of her bow like a hunter might pet their hound before setting it off on a deer.  
Varric noticed the gesture as he approached. He had a very un-Varric-like sobriety to his face, making his masculine features appear brooding and stony. "I think I know what those initials stand for."

**A/N: Thanks for reading. PLEASE review! I'd love honest feedback.**


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